Decagonal
by vivevoce
Summary: "/dek-uh-goh-nl/ adj. - having ten angles and sides." In the end, Lenalee didn't really like lilies and Lavi cringed at Russian dolls. There were many things you didn't know about the D.grayman characters. Here's ten. Rating may change.
1. I: Yuu Kanda

_ten things you never knew about_

* * *

Yuu Kanda

* * *

Kanda didn't eat tempura soba because he liked it.

He ate it because it was the only thing he had left to remember his last life by; his childhood and home-cooked meals and family traditions; the first life only a mother could give. He ate it, because the tea and the steam and the breaking of his chopsticks were the only things he could remember of _home_ before the akuma came and their roof collapsed in on itself. Because it was the last _good_ thing before the blood, and screams_, _and charcoal dust in his throat; before the _pain, _and the sucking mud, and the white lotus flowers, reaching for white, blue-blank skies… Before the final slice of light, in the act of opening of his eyes (an indefinable amount of time later) to the discovery of immersion in a life only the Second Exorcist Project could've given him. He ate trying to reestablish that last, good connection, and that's something they had never been able to understand.

* * *

_1._ _He remembered far more than they gave him credit for._

* * *

Seeing the way they interacted, most would be astounded (read: would go into cardiac arrest) to discover that Kanda was actually the one who made first contact.

When Bookman Jr. came to the Order, he was a distant little thing. Blank and coolly observing, even at that age, he only played the part of an innocent, devil-may-care child. Already, in his words and actions, he was the job. For, despite of the many jokes and irresistible charm, there was no Lavi Bookman. Only a receptacle. He was one persona out of forty eight others, all equally fake, that had been created and discarded by the same red hair and mismatched, cynical green eyes. He kept only to himself, to his duties, or to Bookman. His smiles were perfect, impeccably timed. Plastic. His humor was artificial. Through his presence and actions, he clearly defined himself as something separate and temporary, not meant to be interacted with; easily forgotten.

Kanda was the only one who refused to put up with that crap and bull. He didn't like facades, and he hated such cowardly denial of emotions and personality even more. He was the first one to speak to Lavi and force him to be the person, not the mask (not the one forty-ninth out of four more dozen), and despite what he says (despite the way he shoves the other boy off and almost comically shuns his every action), Kanda's never regretted it since.

* * *

_2. He was the first one to really talk to Lavi._

* * *

The world regarded it as a wonderful flower.

Lotuses were symbols of supreme beauty and purity; something so exquisite, so perfectly made, growing deep from the mud and muck. Pure and unstained. Always reaching skywards.

It was so mocking of everything that he was. A symbol of rebirth, he learned once, on a mission to Egypt. A second life. (A second chance.) He saw them everywhere, and they reminded him too much of what he had and what he'd lost. On a mission in China, he discovered one last fact to cement his hatred. Gautama Buddha, the Enlightened One, the kind, the loving, the divine, was born with lotuses growing wherever he stepped. This hideous irony only further makes him glad that he's an atheist.

_

* * *

_

_3. Kanda hated lotuses. _

_

* * *

_

It wasn't simply the fact that Komui's sister-complex could terrorize the shit out of anybody. (That was already a given.)

No, the truth was even simpler, and far weaker of him than he'd ever let others uncover. Quite simply, Kanda had never been able to stomach a girl crying. (Especially if that girl was the one whose childhood he grew up protecting.)It didn't even matter if he knew it was fake half the time; he just couldn't stand to see the violent trembling, the quivering lip, or the pained sobs.

Kanda never had a little sister, but with her, he could almost understand what it felt like.

* * *

_4. Lenalee Lee was the only person who knew exactly how to scare him._

_

* * *

_

He'd never believed it was possible before (somehow it never registered as a real option for him, the idiot _always_ survived) but it happened, and for a moment, the blood was all he could register.

The Noah. Blowing a fucking hole in Allen's chest. Allen started to fall and moments later, there was a cloud of dust from the rubble where he landed. For a long time, there were only seconds stretching into eternity; cold and bleak. Then there was violent disbelief.

His legs were moving before he told them to, and by the time Kanda ran to him, Mugen was ready to tear Tyki Mikk into pieces. (Insanity, power gap and all.) And Kanda did it, nearly killed himself from his own injuries, but even with the Noah disintegrating into the wind, even with the breaks and fractures still healing in his bones, he was still not done. This _ferocity, _this pained, frenzied boiling in his blood _(this cold, stony dread)_ was something he'd never experienced when it came to the Moyashi.

He was ready to bet that he'd lost at least two petals from that fight, but the exhaustion, the adrenaline high, were tossed aside as he lighted down from the crumpled structure, kicking aside rubble where white hair and crimson blood lay, spread in a macabre halo. Kanda ignored the shrieks overhead, the screams and explosions that shook the night, and for a moment, all he could see was that stark, coagulating wound, and the fact that Allen wasn't breathing._ (The dread, it turns to ice.) _

His hands are moving, tearing apart strips of his jacket before he can even register how he's able to move in light of this monstrosity, one hand keeping pressure on the wound, feeling broken ribs creaking under his palm. And then...

A heartbeat.

Faint and failing, but before he could start doing compressions to get it going again, silver eyes flew open, fluttered twice, and then Allen was coughing, gasping, conscious and staring up at him. 'Kanda' he mouthed, blood spotting his face, and that first gasp of life, that breath surging back into his lungs, was almost enough to thaw out Kanda's blood and chase the black eternity away.

* * *

_5. But Allen Walker was the first one to ever make him know fear._

_

* * *

_

It had to do with the number of times he'd made Lenalee cry, whenever she heard his footsteps and came running straight to Kanda. It had to do with the number of gray hairs he'd counted under Komui's beret; weary eyes, clenched teeth, and stress marks that hadn't been there _before _he visited. It had to do with the way Miranda cringed when she heard his name, the way Marie's lips tightened; the way Lavi's fists clenched tight, right before determinedly taking a different route from the inspector and going to find Lenalee.

It was the million and one things he did to hurt Allen, the thousands of ways he'd betrayed Kanda, and Alma, and the Exorcists; it was the Akuma Egg he abused, it was the cold arrogance to his features. It was the blackness of his eyes matching the blackness of his mercy. (_Sadism_, more like.)

It was the fear and pain he caused around the Order, even when he was supposedly doing it to help them.

* * *

_6. Kanda hated Levierrer, the same way everybody else did. Maybe even more. _

_

* * *

_

If you ever asked him why, he would tell you to kindly fuck off.

It's a good thing nobody ever thought to ask.

Kanda didn't have a lot of spare time as an exorcist, and what little he did have, he put to ludicrously practical use. Therefore, the mystery of what he did for entertainment was, well, a mystery. They all assumed that he simply meditated, or trained with Mugen, or spent his time... breathing, or blinking, or something. Seriously, it wasn't like he did anything _fun_.

Allen was the only one who had even an inkling otherwise.

"Kanda, what's that?" he asked, when he stumbled upon the other (quite by accident) one day on the roof.

"None of your business," was the offhand reply. This lack of hostility made Allen curious, but slightly less wary, so he decided it safe to edge closer.

His eyebrows drew together.

"Were those our mission specs?" he remarked lightly to the organized, elaborately confusing mess of folds and creases Kanda was deftly reducing their orders to.

"Che."

Kanda pressed the folds of paper together, unfolded it, and made a few more sharp creases. Slowly it started to look like something. Allen was starting to wonder why Kanda wasn't snapping at him to go away yet, when he noticed that the focused, intense look Kanda normally had on his face was muted, and directed at the paper in his hands instead.

Kanda gave it one final fold, pulled it, and set it down. Allen stared, marveling at the sudden dimension to the previously flat jumble.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked, reaching an almost unconscious finger to the white crane sitting on the concrete beside Kanda's knees; neat, black print flowing like minute tattoos over its wings and head.

"Tiedoll," Kanda grunted long-sufferingly, now staring at the hazy orange clouds settling over the horizon. Sadly, there was no conceivable way you could get away with _not _knowing art when you lived with that man. Tiedoll lived and breathed it; he exuded it. As a result, Marie was a musician, Daisya was crazy when it came to colors, and Kanda?

"…He learned this from a woman he met in Kyoto," Kanda divulged suddenly and absentmindedly. Allen's eyes snapped to attention. "He figured I would've liked it, since painting was too 'out-there' for me," he elaborated, rolling his eyes.

This was true. Tiedoll had tried (numerous times) to install the love of paints and colors in his youngest 'son'—but painting required creativity and original, visual expression. Kanda's color palette was limited to black and white, and he hated breaking from the well-established. That was why he enjoyed this. There were strict rules behind this; an ancient, proven technique in this artistry based on tradition. There was a specific, precise order that you had to follow without deviating from the sequence, and the result was always the same; breathtaking creation. Expression from nothing, repeated and perfect, every time. And the possibilities Tiedoll had mastered and bestowed onto him were endless too. Dogs, flowers, boxes, turtles, beetles, elephants...

"Jealous?" he smirked, watching Allen, awed, examining it from every angle.

The playfulness to this question, lacking it's normal scathing edge, made Allen catch his eye and smile.

"Just a little."

* * *

_7. Kanda was an accomplished master when it came to origami._

_

* * *

_

It was a stray.

It was cute, and scruffy, and playfully nipped at their heels as their boots disturbed little eddies of snow on the Slovakian streets. The cuff of Kanda's boot was caught by it, and it gave a cheerful nibble and throaty 'woof' as it bared its teeth in a wolfish grin. Everyone on the team, the finder included, expected Kanda to kick the dog and step over its unmoving body to continue on his way. Lenalee even made a hasty move to run intervention.

This, shockingly, was not needed.

Kanda lowered himself to its eye level, took a hold of its scruff, and gently shook its head so that the teeth loosened on his boot.

"No." he said, calmly but firmly. "Let go."

Lavi's single visible eyebrow arched high into his bandanna. Lenalee looked caught between utter shock, amusement, and the intense desire to go 'aww.' Link just looked like Link. The stray whined, but let go, plopping down to sit on the packed snow. Kanda let go of its scruff, gave its ears a ruffle, and walked away. He took maybe five steps before he impatiently turned around.

"Are you people coming or not," he said flatly. Allen, who was still looking between him and the dog with a dumbfounded expression, shook himself awake.

"Right," he said, discretely jarring Lenalee from her now violent attempts not to squeal. The dog just laid its head on its paws and lazily woofed; tongue hanging out, white clouds of breath rising into the air.

* * *

_8. He was a dog person. Sue him._

_

* * *

_

Kanda was a uniquely stubborn person.

He didn't care how many times he heard it, that didn't change anything. He wasn't going to cut it. His hair when he let it down was longer than most women let theirs grow—still, he'd be damned before he took Jerry's offer and let anyone take scissors to it. If they said it made him look feminine, hey, it was their limbs (he'd decided most people didn't need all four anyways). Lenalee argued however, that since he used just plain old hand soap to wash it, he couldn't care _that_ much about it. He usually ignored her and picked up a bar on his way to the baths. The story behind his reluctance however, really made sense when you thought about it.

Most people never experienced it, so they never realized; hair was remarkably flammable (he thought Lenalee of all people would've understood that). When subjected to numerous electrical shocks that resulted from trying to synchronize, over and over, to unresponsive Innocence, it burned. Flesh and muscle grew back; bones healed quickly for him. Hair, however, came back slowly, being an excess of energy that accompanied vital health. Kanda spent many months of his twisted childhood just running a hand through his short locks to watch some break off, burnt and brittle. He was going to be damned if he had to regrow a full head of hair all over again.

* * *

_9. His time from the Second Exorcist project left his hair short, sparse and dead.  
He refused to let it ever get that again._

_

* * *

_

It was a kind of sick joke when their Finder got separated from them in the middle of the forest, on an _island _of all places. Allen, being thoroughly hopeless when it just came to finding his way around Headquarters, and Lavi, who was unfamiliar with the Philippines and had a good knowledge of direction, but a horrible sense of finding it in the jungle, were totally useless. Even the golems, useful for communication, but somehow seriously lacking when it came to global bearing, couldn't help (Kanda just knew that cheapskate general was all for show with the gold plating and its monster teeth).

So that just left it up to… him. Great.

"Where'd he say we left the ship at?" he sighed irritably, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Uhm… Banked it somewhere north-east, Yuu-chan. Although, shit, the sun's gone down, I can't tell which way east even is."

"Find me a clearing," Kanda growled, and shortly enough, they came to a spot where the canopy was patchier and stars could be seen scattered out in every direction.

Within half an hour, they were out of the densely tree-populated area, and into a mangrove, which eventually cleared out into a shore, where there was a ship and a harried Finder walking a rut into the sand.

"Shit, Yuu, when'd you learn that?" Lavi asked, impressed, now going over to calm the poor, slightly hysterical man down.

"There's nothing to do at night," Kanda said impassively.

"So you learned to navigate?" Allen asked, clearly stunned. "Where the bloody hell were you when we got stranded in Mongolia? I didn't even know you knew what Polaris was!"

Kanda just shrugged and shoved the spluttering English boy over to Lavi, whose knees were being attacked by the sobbing, relieved Finder.

* * *

_10. He stargazed. A lot._

_

* * *

_

_**A/N: **_

_**Whew! I liked this! Crap, I had a lot of other projects  
in the works, but this one just came out and obnoxiously  
took all their places :) Ah well. The others will get their time eventually. **_

_**Turned out a bit longer than I thought it would be, but I can't picture  
it any shorter. I'm happy with it. Hopefully the rest  
of the chapters will be a bit more concise. **_

_**Will be updated at my leisure. Considering how many characters there are,  
this might take... forever. So there'll be random updates at infrequent measures,  
because YES, Jerry and Fou and even the Noah might get their chances too.  
Maybe I'll even devote one to the Akuma, or Timcampy. This will be on backburner,  
written for fun, but I'm still pulling it along for the ride, so giddy-yap!**_

_**PS. Reviews and suggestions are very much welcomed.  
**__ Love to hear what you think! :D_


	2. II: Komui Lee

_ten things you never knew about_

_

* * *

_

Komui Lee

* * *

As the first born he was expected to be perfect.

From the day he was old enough to hold his baby sister in his arms and be reprimanded for his actions, he was introduced to the high standards that the simple act of being born Chinese required. (This had prepared him for his roles, later on in life.) For his parents, he had to know how to play all roles, and to play them perfectly. He had to be the genius, the success story, the brother, the caretaker, and—when their parents died—the provider.

Later, when they took her away, his only family (his baby) he had to become even more.

In order to attain his position as Head Supervisor, he had to be the best. Even better than the best. To survive in a field of ruthless competition, he had to endeavor to be even _more_ ruthlessly efficient: he had to beat out hundreds of others for his spot; he had to shoulder responsibilities he never would have dreamed.

Even in his joy at finally, _finally_ being reunited with his little sister, he was aware of the new, daunting weight that bore down on his shoulders. Each day he slumped a little more in his seat, passed out a little earlier, drank a few more cups of caffeine. He soon became very good friends with the cook, Jerry, who had to keep up with his coffee habits.

Komui was twenty years old, but he had just become responsible for thousands, maybe _millions_ of fragile existences. The lives and happiness and welfare of his coworkers and subordinates, all of which were _impossible _to guarantee. Worse, among those thousands and millions of nameless faces was his sister; Innocence-compatible and doomed, marked for disaster. His decisions were sentences, condemnations. For him to slip up would be catastrophic, cataclysmic.

Eight years later, he never once wavered in his competence, contrary to River's and the majority of the Science Department's firm belief otherwise. Eight years later, despite countless failed Komurins and lingering cases of PTSD among his scientists, fewer coffins filled the Order's mess hall.

* * *

_1. No matter what anybody said to the contrary, in his own way, Komui defied all expectations._

* * *

One of the reasons Jerry was such keen friends with Komui was also one of the most unlikely.

On his first day arriving at the Order, Komui had ordered lunch from one of the newer cooks stationed (Jerry himself, at the time). It was an unremarkable order; jiaozi with a soy-vinegar dipping sauce (extra red chili, please). His slight accent was strange in comparison to the Oxford English spoken by just about everybody there, so it stuck out in Jerry's mind as he prepared the ginger and hurriedly stuffed the dumplings (under the screaming French-tinted authority of the head chef. Yeesh). Several minutes later, he served the man with a beaming smile and a shooing motion of his arms (because hey, there were a _lot _of people waiting in line) and gave no further thought to him.

Until approximately ten minutes later anyway, when the Chinese man made himself known once more, this time with his white beret lopsided and glasses askew.

"Excuse me. I would like another order, please," the Chinese man said politely, fixing his spectacles. "I got into a slight… _accident_." He held up his splattered coat and empty dish as proof. Jerry sighed and pushed his sleeves up again.

"Sure thing, hon."

"It was probably for the best," Komui said apologetically as the pink-dreaded cook scuffled away. "The last batch could have used a little more pork, and a _lot _more garlic."

Jerry stopped in his tracks.

"Oh, _excuse_ me," he huffed, crossing his arms. "I've got thirty other people waiting on me behind you, so _sorry_ if I skimped out on the garlic."

Komui, instead of taking offense at his tone, inexplicably perked up.

"That's alright," he beamed. "I can make some for myself, if you would allow."

Jerry was normally a very cheerful and placid-mannered person. That is, until somebody crossed his cooking.

"Fine," he hissed testily, whirring around and directing the other to the kitchen entrance. "Let's see if _you_ can do any better _yourself_."

They were delicious. They were plump, and golden, and bursting with tender meat and scallions. Jerry wanted to cry unmanly tears. Instead he and the Chinese man (_Komui_, _so that was his name_) ended up excitedly exchanging recipes and life stories (he made these for his little sister all the timeback in China, you see, and what _say, _so _you're_ little Lenalee's brother).

It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

* * *

_2. Komui was quite the talented cook. _

_

* * *

_

He never wore any other color.

No matter how Lenalee stomped around and pleaded, Komui's sister-complex never extended to his wardrobe, which was white and bland to say the least.

"Brother," Lenalee would moan, colorful knit sweater in hand. "Nobody wears white on white on _white _unless they work in a hospital and are trying to blend into the walls."

"Oh my dear, naive Lenalee," would come the sage answer. "The walls here are all _gray, _you know that. Stone and cement obviously don't match my coat."

"Just because you work as a scientist doesn't mean that's the _only _color you have to own. Come on, brother, try this nice sweater on…"

He would. And when she would come back an hour later, carrying his afternoon coffee, she would find him in the process of bleaching it white. She would then make some strangling motion in the air before giving up.

Komui had a complex with wearing colors, you see. White was safe. White was monotonous. White always matched.

White was mourning.

White was the color that he turned when he sent others away and received them back home in boxes. White was the color that never stayed, that was always lost when it was splashed with chemicals or stained by blood. White was the color the Chinese wore to receive the dead, which he did so often, he took to dressing that way for convenience.

He saw too much black around the Order for him to feel comfortable. Black may have the Western color of grieving, but because they did not understand his culture, his specific way of paying respects to the dead, he took it upon himself to dress for all of them.

* * *

_3. Komui was always dressed to remember the fallen._

* * *

When he was ten, he was the top of his class in regards to science. In fact, his teachers had to bump him up to Chemistry, while he was still in primary school. As he grew older, he showed even more promise, even drawing the attention of the distinguished foreign programs. This made his parents very proud.

"You'll be a scientist," his father declared. "Always make that your first career choice."

Then his mother had Lenalee and his father changed his tactics.

"Remember, Komui," he said as his son carefully handled the blanket swaddled baby. "Be a good role model for your sister. She is your mirror; whatever you do, she will do. Be a good brother."

"Yes, father."

"Family always comes first, little one. When your mother and I are gone, you will be all the other has."

"I'll remember that, father," Komui promised.

Years later, when his father's prophecy proved truer than either sibling could predict, Komui accepted a mug of coffee from his little sister.

"Thank you Lenalee," he said, beaming. "You're growing into such a thoughtful, fine young lady!"

Lenalee huffed and but blushed nonetheless.

"Thank you, brother," she replied, looking pleased as she turned to leave. "Don't let me interrupt your work."

"Oh please," Komui airily sang, stirring his coffee and haphazardly shoving documents to one side. He could feel River's death glare on his neck as he did so. "Tell me about your day, you just got back from a mission! Come to think of it, I've never seen Morocco before, you have to tell me all about it!"

"Well," she laughed and eagerly started to relay the sights and peculiarities of the region: the food was _amazing, _just as the mountains were, and there were so many stars and oh, he just _had_ to go see with her—

And he just smiled and ignored his duties and waited for his coffee to grow cold. And eventually the others stopped getting on his case about it, because like River, they all knew it was useless.

* * *

_3. He would always be a brother first and a scientist second._

* * *

Sometimes, when he wanted a word in private, or when she was in deep trouble (or when he just wanted to pull one over on their English speaking comrades), he would speak to Lenalee in Chinese.

Lenalee knew then to cut herself short and hear what her brother had to say; either it was of a serious nature or just too hilariously insulting to be said out loud (the number of times she'd burst out laughing when she and her brother privately spoke made Kanda paranoid to no end).

Sometimes he was stern with her, and used their native tongue as a way of privacy, to spare the others the rare talking-to or grim explanation meant only for her. He made sure to correct her when her wording was rusty, or when she stumbled over a half-forgotten phrase. When he was on the phone for a social call with Bak, he attempted a shaky Cantonese for which Fou always snorted at in the background. When he found himself reading just one too many English documents, he would fling them away, look out the window, and hum to himself distractedly one of the Chinese folksongs his mother had taught him, or the somewhat bawdy nursery rhymes he knew as a child, or a poem that his grandfather had recited, once.

Every Chinese New Year, he could be seen eating moon cakes with Jerry, and slipping his little sister a red envelope.

* * *

_4. He never wanted to lose his culture._

* * *

It was hard, being the one who stayed. The one who waited, the one who received them when they came back, bloodied and exhausted, almost forgetting the hard earned Innocence in their hands. But it was hard sometimes too, when they came back and they weren't too badly beaten up, and their hands drew excited pictures in the air and Allen described with a drooling reverence all the foreign cuisine, and Kanda made a disparaging comment on the climate, and Marie made a distracted remark on how the _music _he'd heard walking down one of the alleys was so tuneful, so melancholy. When Lenalee and Miranda tiredly (but happily) exchanged short exaltations of the sunset-colored sarongs and luxurious fur capes they'd seen others wear (they _were _women, after all). When Lavi commented on the women, the _women, _and Crowley would blush and advert his eyes.

Sometimes, Komui wished he wasn't the one sitting behind the desk, waiting at home, missing out on their grand adventures.

* * *

_5. He was a little jealous of them, sometimes._

* * *

He had a very special relationship with River.

_Komui_ knew when he was supposed to be doing work. _River _knew when Komui was supposed to be doing work. The entire _Science Department _knew when Komui was supposed to be doing work, because they could hear River _all the way _from out here, thank you very much. And yet, whenever Komui passed out and awoke to stabbing sunlight in both his eyes, there was sometimes a pillow under his head, sometimes a folded jacket. Whenever River gave up on consciousness and allowed himself to close his eyes _just for a few seconds, _he would tell himself, he would wake up with no crick in his neck and sometimes, a blanket settled over his back.

None of the Science Department asked who it was, but none of them had to.

* * *

_6. He and River both appreciated the rarity of sleep._

* * *

Komui loved his straight hair. It spiked when he was in an evil mood, and swung oh so gloriously and he was quite vain of it actually. He'd never appreciated it more than after the _Incident. _Nobody but Jerry really knew the truth of this, of course. Him, and Johnny, come to think of it.

It was only on one fine day that Johnny, hungry and woozy from sleep deprivation, made his way into the cafeteria, only to halt at the sight of his Supervisor with a towel wrapped around his shoulders and the head Cook holding what looked like a basting brush in his hand. It was dripping bubble-gum pink.

"Uhh." Unsure of how exactly to receive this image, Johnny turned around and started retrieving himself a sandwich. When he came back, Komui's head was being… what the heck, it was being _painted… pink. _Jerry was humming very happily, as he did so.

No one commented on the strangeness of this scene, so Johnny took it upon himself to.

"Uhm, _Supervisor_?"

"_Yeeees_?" Komui sang.

"Why exactly are you…?"

"Oh, I just felt like a change."

"I… see," was the strained reply.

"_Mmmhm_," Jerry hummed, smacking his brush into some more dye. "Ol' Komui here wanted to try taking a gander at these luscious locks of mine, so I said, 'Why not' and he said 'I wanna try the dreads too' and I said 'Sure thing' and half an hour later, here we are. Balayage highlights are tricky, so if you don't mind, hon…"

"…Oh," Johnny said, for lack of anything to say. (_Clearly_, there was nothing better to say.) "I'll leave you to it then."

They turned out dreadful, as predicted. The color washed out, mercifully, but the chemicals had somehow left Komui's hair all curly and kinky from the braids. For a week, his hair poofed out on either side like a clown's wig, still somewhat threaded with faint hints of pink. On top of this monstrosity, Komui had very proudly perched his beret, as if nothing were the matter, and pretended to love his new hairdo.

Everybody took him even less seriously than usual.

Lenalee couldn't look him in the face for months without laughing.

Bak had to hang up on him when the video log came through to save him from hearing his hysterical guffaws.

Kanda even _laughed. _

_

* * *

_

_7. Komui looked _terrible_ in curly hair._

_

* * *

_

It was always a mystery to Allen how and why Komui's beret managed to stay on his head all four seasons of the year. The man never took it off. Sure, it looked nice, and okay, maybe it was sort of his _thing, _just like Lavi's eyepatch and Johnny's swirly glasses. It was only after Levierrer arrived and Allen came back on missions more and more beat up, that he noticed one day, after a briefing, that Komui had gray hairs peeking out from under his hat. The sight made him stop and stare mutely. Komui noticed the boy pause by the doorway, blood still dripping onto his tiles. He gave Allen a weary smile, and for the first time, Allen noticed how Komui's eyes were starting to resemble Bookman's.

"Are you alright there, Allen?" he asked, cheerfully as ever.

"I'm… fine, Komui," was all Allen managed to answer. "Thank you," he added. "For asking, that is."

"It's nothing, Allen, nothing," Komui sang, and waved him out the door. "Maybe I'll have to make another Komurin Luxury Stress-Relief model for you, eh?"

As Allen closed the door behind himself, it occurred to him for the first time that Komui was only twenty eight years old.

* * *

_8. He wore a beret to hide the worst of his stress._

* * *

Maybe it was his sick, twisted way of letting off steam, Kanda thought, as he ran for his life down the suddenly empty corridors, the pounding sound of metal feet inches behind him. Or maybe, he thought, as his leg was snatched up by the Fifty Seventh Komurin model, and Lavi yelled frantically for River to hurry up with that bazooka, Komui was just a goddamn imbecilic bastard who had too much time on his hands.

_

* * *

_

_9. Komui found creating monstrous killer Komurins very therapeutic._

* * *

He hated always being the bearer of bad news.

He hated being the one who always had to deal directly with Levierrer and Central, the one who always had to end up carrying out their orders, no matter how hard he argued. He hated being the one who caused Lenalee's face to scrunch up like that, for Allen's head to hang so wearily on his shoulders, for Kanda to avoid his face entirely. He hated Cross Marian's derisive snort when he passed decisions that he himself didn't agree with.

He hated being the one who had to hold that thick Latin Bible open to _Funerals_, and to read to an assembly of people all dressed in black; all standing (kneeling, _crying_) next to row after row of stately white coffins. People _he'd_ sent, decisions _he'd_ made. Lives he'd ended.

He hated being able to laugh it off the next day, being able to resume his role as the goofy, screwball superior; because if he couldn't laugh after that, then who could?

He hated not being able to cry.

Not in front of them, because God, if he cried, then they would cry, and he could _not _allow himself to let them lose hope.

When Kanda gave Allen hell for his fake smile and false optimism, Komui forgave him for it, because he did it too.

* * *

_10. He hated his job, but he was the only one he could trust to do it right._

_

* * *

_

_**A/N:**_

_**Whaaaat? An update? **_

_**Yeah. Read and review :) **_

_**I don't know why I made Komui's so angsty, but its good to see  
this side of him. Since it's, you know, so hard to take him seriously.**_

_**Oh and explanations:**_

_**jiaozi = a sort of potsticker, think dim sum or dumplings**_

_**PTSD = Post Traumatic Stress Disorder**_

_**and yes, Balayage is a real technique for highlighting hair.**_

_**And I just noticed that I wrote two number 3's. Oh well.  
**_

_**Thanks for reading!  
**_


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